


paint on ruins

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Relationship, or in a dress this time, set Abundance on fire, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: The first time Anton sees Colonel Watcher in a dress, he feels something is wrong.
Relationships: Anton Rogue/Viktor Watcher
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	paint on ruins

**Author's Note:**

> Bastards <3

Anton doesn’t even recognize Viktor at the first glance, with all the flowery lines and airy material of a fancy dress, and makeup. But then he realizes it’s his Colonel Bastard. There are even long earrings, making Viktor’s neck appear even longer.

And there are... legs. It’s not that Anton didn’t notice before that Colonel Watcher has long legs—kinda hard to miss them. But now it’s not legs, it’s Legs. Miles and miles of Legs, the straps of his high heeled shoes only accentuating the line of them, and he has such shapely calves, and the slit in the skirt of the dress goes very, very high, and there are tattoos...

But it doesn’t fit. Something is wrong here. The dress is beautiful and definitely extremely expensive and tailored for Viktor, and Viktor knows how to wear it well, knows how to walk in high heels, and his makeup is immaculate, drawing attention to high cheekbones...

But it doesn’t _fit_. Anton would have... Well, if he ever tried to imagine Viktor in anything but a turtleneck and his gray jacket—which he _didn’t_ imagine, ever, no, he never thought about it, absolutely... He would have thought something more defined for Viktor. Geometry, sharp cuts, something that makes him look incredibly rich and dangerous. Yet... It’s not even that. Maybe Viktor likes such airy dresses with— _gods_ , Anton can just about see Viktor’s hips, his waist, the pale silhouette...

It’s the tattoos. They are... They are _Viktor’s_. They are not makeup, but something personal, something with meaning. And Viktor is a very personal man. The tattoos being opened like that is obscene. Wrong. Anton doesn’t have any problems with tattoos, but... It feels wrong. He can’t figure it out, but he wants to take off his jacket and offer it to Viktor and make some excuse to lead him out of here. Bring him the gray jacket and tell him he doesn’t have to do this—whatever this is.

Anton notices one of the guests obviously leering at Viktor, and nearly crushes the glass in his hand.

Then the colonel looks right at Anton. And an alarm blares in Anton’s head. He would have arched his back and hissed.

He puts his glass on a nearest tray, strides to Viktor, putting on a sociable smile. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Viktor smiles with his lips alone. “Ah, Tony. I’d like to talk. Excuse me.” He smiles even sweeter at the people he’s been speaking with.

Anton offers his arm, and Viktor slips his hand onto his elbow, even though Anton has to hold it uncomfortably high. Viktor is taller by the head, but now the height difference is even more dramatic. It doesn’t matter, though, because Viktor leans heavily on his arm. Once they are away from guests, Anton needs to practically drag him.

He finds a quiet room, filled with late sun, and takes a look at Viktor. Viktor shivers visibly, wraps an arm around himself. He’s pale in a bad way, breathing shallowly.

“You’ve been drugged,” Anton says flatly.

Viktor smiles—sheepishly. There is purple-blue lipstick that looks uncomfortably like a bruise, on his mouth. Anton suffocates in the floral perfume. All of it is wrong.

“I know. The effect won’t... I have a delay of a couple of hours. For mission.”

“Who the fuck—” He stops himself, takes a breath. Think with your brain—try to think like Viktor—and not with your rage.

Viktor slumps, blinking slowly.

“ _Mon Colonel_. You don’t look well at all. Unless you are playing the role with me. Do you want to stay and continue with your mission? Tell me and I can keep an eye on you from afar. Or tell me to fuck— Sorry. To leave you alone.”

Viktor looks at him in obvious surprise. “You would allow... Me?”

“I wouldn’t ‘allow’ anything,” Anton explains. “It’s your call. I trust your judgment.”

“Even now?”

“Even now. You know yourself best.”

Viktor frowns. Then brings his hand to his face and, before Anton can alert him, rubs his eyes. Then looks dazedly at his fingers with light-blue eye shadow smeared on them. Sighs. “I... don’t want this. But I have to...” His frown deepens even more. “No. Too dangerous. The effect is too strong.”

It would have been fascinating to watch Viktor think aloud any other time, but right now Anton’s curiosity is overridden by concern.

Viktor looks at him and nods. “Take me to safety?” Then he smiles a silly, soft little smile that makes heat rush to Anton’s cheeks. “Batman.”

Anton drops to his knees, murmuring, “I think we should get your heels off first.”

Viktor leans back, perched on the windowsill. Anton moves the flowy material out of the way—gods, it’s almost transparent, but there are several layers. Suggestive. The thin straps of the shoes has dug into Viktor’s skin. The shoes are fine, perfectly sized for him, it’s that he’s been wearing them for too long. And probably the drug is affecting his blood pressure and fluids. Anton undoes the straps carefully, then takes the shoe off, repeats the same with the other. “Batman? Why?”

“Oh, you know. ‘I am the night.’ _You_ are the night. Although... Not a bat. Catman?”

Anton ties one strap over the other shoe, and gives them to Viktor. “Catman, as far as I recall, is bisexual. And I am gay. Besides, capes are not very useful in city environments.”

Viktor smiles again that silly, loopy smile. “You tried wearing a cape!”

“No, I did not. It’s simply sensible. Try running around in the Slums even in a coat, and it would quickly become rags. But! I can carry you all the way, if you want. Or shall we call a taxi?”

The smile and the light on Viktor’s face, though wrong as it is brought by the drug, die quickly. He chews on his bottom lip. “Only if you... You _will_ stay with me, yes? Until I get to, um. To my apartment.”

Anton wonders whether, right now, Viktor is battling with some fear, and rational concern that he would lead his enemy right to his home. Apartment.

“I know where you live, Viktor,” Anton says casually. “And of course I’ll stay, if you want me to. But if you don’t want a taxi, we can walk. And the offer to carry you still stands.”

Anton calls a taxi, promising to triple their fare if they get here in a few minutes. Keeping an eye on Viktor.

Viktor shivers again, rubs his bare shoulders with his free hand. “Hate this dress.”

Anton stuffs his phone into his pants pocket, takes off his jacket and wraps it around Viktor’s shoulders. “You’ll get it off soon.”

“Favorite lace... um. Underwear.” Viktor beams uncharacteristically. He looks wrong. Sounds wrong.

Anton chuckles. “I didn’t need to know that. But it’s good there is something about this that is comfortable to you.” He offers his arm again. “Shall we?”

They run into one of the guests when they are just about to leave, and by the woman’s narrowing eyes, he knows immediately: it’s _her_. She folds her face into a saccharine smile, looking at Viktor. “Vikkie? Where are you going?”

Anton hates himself, _hates_ himself—but slips an arm around Viktor’s waist, fingers caressing Viktor’s thigh at the start of the skirt slit, and smiles as sweetly as he can manage. “Somewhere more private.”

Viktor slings an arm over his shoulders. “Yes, dear. I’m sorry. Next time? The party was good.”

The back of Anton’s head practically burns from the glare the woman is giving him. But he remembers her face and he will find out who she is and where she lives and what the fuck— Or maybe he won’t. He did say he trusts Viktor’s judgment.

Блядство.

The taxi is already waiting for them, and Anton helps Viktor fold on the back seat, scoops the skirt of the dress, then climbs on the seat near Viktor and tells the driver to be fast but gentle, then says the address.

Viktor lays his head on Anton’s shoulder. Anton tries not to even breathe, to not move him too much.

They ride in silence for a while, each moment stretching and filling Anton with anger and disgust. Viktor’s hair is soft under his cheek.

“How are you feeling?”

“Going to be hungover.”

“If you even remember anything,” Anton murmurs.

“Don’t want to forget,” Viktor says quietly, then sits up. “Could you lend me your phone? I need to call a... friend. To let them know the party’s over.”

Anton blinks, then hands Viktor his phone. “Of course.”

Viktor leans back, types the number, rubs his eyes again. Anton reaches out and touches his wrist. “Don’t. It gets into your eyes and would hurt like hell.”

Viktor offers him that loopy smile again. Dreadful smile. “Oh. Thank you.” Then he closes his eyes.

His wrist is rather thin under Anton’s fingers. He hastily takes his hand away.

“Henry,” Viktor breathes out. “No. I’m bad. Hm. No. With Catman. Yes, him. He’s gay, though. Not bi. Not like— Yes. Yes, I know. I’ll shut up. See you in— But I— Okay. Okay. Yes. Uh. Yes. I’ll tell him. Bye.” He drops the phone onto his lap. “Henry said they would arrest me if I dare come to work in the morning.”

Anton figures that Henry is the aide he’s seen by Viktor’s side a few times. Someone takes care of him—good. It says a lot about Viktor that there is someone like this by his side.

“They are right,” Anton says. “You should take it slow.”

Viktor sighs. “Okay.”

Anton doesn’t like this... agreeability. It doesn’t matter that Viktor is his enemy. Things like this shouldn’t happen to _anyone_.

Smeared makeup can be sexy at times, especially on someone as striking as Viktor—but not like this. Not when it’s not by choice. Not when Viktor can barely control his actions.

“They also asked me to tell you,” Viktor murmurs, words a little slurred, with a strange accent Anton cannot quite grasp, “or ask you... Asked me to ask you to stay with me until I. Um. Go to bed.”

Anton nods. “If you want.”

Viktor looks at him, chewing on his bottom lip. Anton thinks that red lipstick might suit him more. Burgundy. Or even black.

“Yes. I want you to.”

Viktor doesn’t seem to notice that it’s quite cold when they exit the taxi (Anton quadruples the fare; night taxi is hell of a work) and the pavement isn’t exactly clean under his feet. Or he doesn’t care right now, not in the state he’s in. He leans even more heavily on Anton, and Anton seriously considers picking him up and carrying him over the stairs. But he’s afraid to ask and be told yes only because Viktor might reply with a yes to everything now.

At least Viktor remembers where he put the keys: in a post box. The lock isn’t anything substantial, Anton knows, and there is nothing to steal.

He doesn’t turn on the lights. Viktor might be sensitive. “ _Mon Colonel?_ Do you want to wash the makeup off first or to have something to eat? Or to drink? How are you feeling right now?” He frowns at himself. Is that too many questions at once?

Viktor is a tall silhouette in the darkness, taking off Anton’s jacket and reaching blindly for... For a hanger? Is that what he always does with his own jacket?

“Um. Makeup?”

“Okay.” Anton toes off his shoes. While he tries to sort himself out, Viktor moves past him to the bathroom. And drops the dress as he goes.

Well. The ‘underwear’ is certainly nice. Red lace. Something that Anton can imagine Viktor choosing for himself, yes.

Gods, what is he thinking?

“Uh. Mr Rogue? I... Need help.”

Anton shakes himself and rushes into the bathroom. Viktor looks lost. Confused. The lipstick is gone, but not completely.

“I, uh. Can you help me with eyes?”

Anton washes his hands thoroughly first, makes Viktor sit on the edge of the bathtub, squeezes a little of makeup remover onto a cotton pad. “Viktor, is it safe to use on the lips, too? There is no label.”

Viktor nods. His shoulders, though broad, look fragile. There is a fading bruise on his left hip, shaped like a triangle. Probably from a collision with something. A wall? Furniture corner?

Anton turns to Viktor. “Face up, please?” He cannot try to hold Viktor’s face. It’s... It would look too much like... Just. No.

Viktor’s eyelashes are naturally this long, as he discovers. And his cheekbones are naturally sharp and high. The remover doesn’t smell of anything.

Viktor’s mouth is more severe than soft or pretty, but it suits him. He is all very... fitting to himself, although fuck Anton if he can explain what he means by that. It’s just... All the long lines and sharp angles. Dangerous and beautiful. And knows that. And... uses that. It makes Anton sick. Not from Viktor, but from... everything else.

There is so much gray in Viktor’s hair. And scars on his face—Anton can see them this close.

Viktor opens his eyes slowly, looking up at him.

Anton musters a reassuring smile. “All done. Want me to help you take off the earrings?”

Viktor blinks fast. “Oh. I forgot about them. Yes. The clasp is rather tight.”

Together, they manage to open and remove the earrings. Anton places them carefully on the shelf, so that Viktor could see them and put them in their place later, then cleans up a little. “Viktor, do you want to drink anything? I’d make you tea, if you want, before you go to bed.”

Viktor runs a hand over his hair, messing it. “Yes. Thank you. Tea would be good. I’d... I’ll wash my feet now?”

The questioning intonation is strange, but, as much as Anton hates it with Viktor in such a state, maybe it’s mentally easier if he gets clear instructions. “Yes. Do that.”

He makes weak tea, and Viktor gets to the bed without any accidents. And cocoons himself immediately. He looks rather cosy and soft like this, when Anton brings him tea. Sleepy.

Human.

Anton wonders whether this is only a postponement. Whether Viktor would go as “Vikkie” another time. Allow himself to be drugged, for whatever mission requires it. It is obviously not the first time.

“Do you want me to stay until the morning?” On one hand, Viktor might be very sick in the morning—he said himself he would be hungover. On another... If the drug does make his memories fuzzy, discovering an enemy at your apartment is less than ideal.

Viktor has closed his eyes already. He’s burrowed into the... wait, _three_ blankets?—up to his nose. “Until I fall asleep?”

“Okay.” Anton moves the mug on the bedside table slightly away from the bed, so that Viktor can reach it but not knock it over at night.

Viktor lives alone: everything points to that, and Anton wouldn’t imagine him pretending to tolerate someone. This space is formed around Viktor. And it’s austere, simple—surprised Anton when he “visited” the first time.

“I’m sorry for ruining your mission,” he says quietly. He doesn’t expects an answer.

But it comes anyway. “It’s only delayed. Thank you for... noticing. Noticing me and... Everything. You didn’t have to.”

“I did.”

Viktor scrunches his nose. “Hate being drugged...”

“Then why do it?” He suspects the answer is, for the mission.

Viktor shifts—it looks like a shrug, but Anton can’t be sure, with all the blankets. “My target and her husband like it. Did it to other of their playthings. While I’m drugged, they wouldn’t think I’m a threat. And I wouldn’t ask any of my people to do it.”

“But if you slip?”

“I _know_ how to work with it.” Viktor sounds monotone, with that unusual accent, but outraged, too.

Anton chuckles. “I don’t doubt your professionalism. Do you take something beforehand?”

“No. Just have a built-up tolerance and training.”

Gods. _Gods_. Anton tries to find some other topic, safer but familiar to Viktor. “Vikkie?”

Viktor scrunches his nose again. “Wind-headed, he is. But everyone wants him, so he’s useful.”

“Has pretty dresses. And very expensive.”

“From his very rich patrons.”

Viktor is a dead man, Anton realizes with startling horror.

The moment any of other bosses, gangsters, anyone at all sees Vikkie in Viktor, or the other way around; the moment they find out that the Director of the ASC, who instills such fear, sleeps with high and mighty for favors and things... They wouldn’t care that “Vikkie” is just a persona, they wouldn’t care about Viktor’s reasons... It took Mara _years_ , with Vory help, to build a system that makes sex work relatively safe in the Slums, but Upper Ophir has always been a nightmare of risks. Mara and her people haven’t managed to build a safety network there. There is less overt violence, it’s true, and better pay, and a chance to get well-paying regulars. But Upper Ophir has better access to dirty drugs. And unscrupulous gangs know of the lures, and know of the pressure and threat of arrests. Anton would never permit arrests of sex workers on his territory—it’s practically legalized in the Slums. Not so in Upper Ophir.

Everyone wants Vikkie. Everyone would want a piece of Viktor Watcher.

“Viktor? Do you know of Black Dahlias? Mara?”

“The secretary-general of the Black Dahlias? The one running for the Assembly next year?”

“Yeah, she’s— What? Really?”

“So I’ve heard.”

Anton can’t see Viktor’s mouth, but he can tell Viktor is smiling at knowing something Anton doesn’t. What a bastard.

“She’s going to run from M-Fifty-Two.”

“Wow.” District M-52 is notoriously conservative, and very poor. But Mara was born there. “I hope she succeeds.”

“I hope, too. We need more of capable people in the Assembly. But what about her?”

Anton wets his lips, trying to find the right way to phrase it. “You can go to her or any Dahlias, if you are in trouble.”

“So they shoot me _and_ kick me in the nethers?”

“They would do that to Viktor Watcher, probably. But not to Vikkie.”

Viktor opens his eyes. Beautiful eyes—eyes of a killer. They give away nothing and everything.

Gods, this man. The ASC Director should be handling his organization, paperwork, politics. And... Well, Anton is certain Viktor does that. The ASC was a joke before he took over, nothing but the Dowser’s spies. And now—so much more. If the Army cannot raze something to the ground, Abundance sends the ASC to capture it from within. To seduce, it seems, sometimes.

And Viktor does this. Himself. Anton would have said that, of course Viktor would, he’s just a tool, a dangerous hound on a leash... But Viktor said he does this because he’d never force his people through it. Not because he’s a control freak, not because he doesn’t trust his people. Not because he gets some kick out of it or wants it. But because, when he thinks it’s necessary, he wouldn’t make anyone of his people go through it.

Anton has a sudden thought that makes him sick: do any of the higherups know? the Dowser? Do they... use Viktor, too, in this way?..

Viktor frowns. “Anton?”

His disgust probably shows on his face. He never could hide his emotions, and now Viktor might think it’s aimed at him. “Or you can come to me,” Anton says—rasps. “It won’t look suspicious. All sorts of people come to me.”

“Someone might think you got a kept man.” Viktor’s tone is light, but his eyes... His eyes are not smiling. “Your partner might object.”

“I don’t have anyone.” Doesn’t Viktor know? “And my people are most likely to cheer that development.”

“Oh?”

Anton’s cheeks heat up at that small word.

If he hadn’t been looking closely, he wouldn’t have noticed the moment something glints in Viktor’s eyes. (He is starting to resemble himself more and more.) Then Viktor shifts a little, and says in a low, sultry voice, “Whatever you want of me, Boss.” And bats his eyelashes, fucker.

Anton snorts, trying to hold back laughter, and nudges Viktor. “It’s so horrible, stop it. If you come to me with this, my reputation will suffer.”

“You were the one to offer it, _sir_.”

Anton hides his face in his palms.

He dares to look at Viktor only when he thinks his face is slightly less pink that it feels. And Viktor has pulled the blankets up to his nose again, but even with only his eyes visible he looks so, so pleased with himself, the bastard.

“You can afford to have a bad taste in men, Mr Rogue.”

Anton chuckles. “You are the opposite of bad taste. Well, unless you say those terrible things.”

He realizes that he’s probably given his Colonel Bastard even more ammo and that Colonel Bastard has latched onto all the right words—because Viktor arches a brow. “Oh? You think I’m _pretty_?” he drops his voice to that awful sultry tone again.

“No, you are not pretty—you are beautiful and you are supposed to go to sleep.” Anton reaches over to tuck the blankets around Viktor, hoping it buys him some time to fight the traitorous blush.

Viktor lies back, closes his eyes. “I don’t like being pretty,” he says quietly.

Anton fights the urge to touch his cheek. Viktor cannot want touches right now, can he? “Vikkie is pretty,” Anton says. “ _You_ are beautiful.”

“But Vikkie is me.” Viktor sounds vulnerable for a moment. Young. Uncertain.

“I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t the word ‘handsome’ used for men?”

“There are handsome men. And then, there are beautiful men.”

He sits with Viktor, as promised, until Viktor is firmly asleep. Checks that he has enough water at hand, and though there is not much in the fridge, Anton doesn’t dare to cook without Viktor’s permission. He finds the dress still on the floor near the bathroom, picks it up and folds, then leaves it on a chair in the bedroom. Trying not to think whether it was bought by one of Vikkie’s “patrons”.

All of it could be an act. But Anton doesn’t think it was just Viktor messing with him. Viktor was too tired, drugged heavily, vulnerable. Scared, probably, of being so vulnerable. Anton wouldn’t want to remind him of the whole ordeal, but he wants to make it know he meant his offer of help in honest. Nobody should go through this. Nobody should go through this _alone_ , without some backup, even though Viktor obviously has someone already. For Viktor it isn’t a question of starving-or-selling-himself—but regardless of the reason it is no less dangerous. Viktor feels it’s the only option. In this case, it is to bring justice for those who had their choice taken from them. Who knows what is the reason in other instances? Protecting his agents. Protecting those who truly cannot say no and have nowhere to go. Not for his own survival, but so that someone else doesn’t have to.

Anton understands.

He leaves quietly, then takes out his phone and texts the latest number:

>He’s asleep. I left the key in the post box. Check that he drinks plenty. It’s a mix of stuff.

An answer comes quickly:

<I know what to do. Not the first time.

<If you tell anyone I will personally kill you.

If he thinks he is starting to understand even a little of how Viktor operates, with what kind of people he surrounds himself... He knows it’s not a threat—it’s a promise.

>I won’t tell. Good night, Lieutenant.


End file.
